If You're Gone
by Dafni Laurel
Summary: During and after “An Affair To Dismember,” Max and Fran ponder their relationship and come to some conclusions.


Title: If You're Gone  
  
Author: Dafni Laurel  
  
Email: DafniLaurel@yahoo.com  
  
Summary: During and after "An Affair To Dismember," Max and Fran ponder their relationship and come to some conclusions.  
  
Author's Notes: Inspired by the lyrics to Matchbox Twenty's "If You're Gone" and Chaka Khan's "Through The Fire." First, we get Max's POV, wherein he's finished with the project he'd been busy with at work and tries to relax in his tub, while, unbeknownst to him, Fran's leaving the house to meet Nigel. The second half is Fran's POV, picking up where Max's leaves off.  
  
*************  
  
"Thank you, Niles."  
  
As Niles exits the room, Maxwell Sheffield sips the hot tea, then places the delicate cup back on the saucer, and sets the items on the tiled edge of the bathtub. A deep-lunged sigh escapes from his chest as he sinks deeper into the water of the tub and arranges the rolled up white towel to act as a makeshift pillow, nestled between his dark head of hair and the edge of the tub.  
  
His eyelids slide closed, and, in spite of his best efforts, he gives in to the contemplation he's been staving off all week. Either by chance or by design, work has prevented Max from allowing his true emotions to come to the surface. While his brother has been in town, and he's been so busy, he's missed the company of a particular person in his household.  
  
Now, without work to distract or deter, his feelings are surfacing with a force he hadn't expected, and the magnitude of them is almost overwhelming. His emotions feel like an unsolvable, uncategorizable mystery. Much like the object of those feelings themselves. The knot in Max's gut, which he might have, in the past, taken for indigestion, is now, he knows with a concrete certainty, also a result of that same object.  
  
--- But she's no mere object. Miss Fine. Fran. Miss Fine. Fran. Miss Fine. Damn it, I'm completely smitten with the woman, and I can't even use her first name when I *think* about her. ---  
  
Trying to hasten the relaxation he sought by taking this bath, Max slides under the water, paying no attention to the towel, which is also going under the surface, along with his head. Rising from the steaming water and tossing the now sopping towel to the side, he can't shake the feeling that he's already lost Miss Fine.  
  
--- Good God, man, it's not like you *have* her to lose in the first place. ---  
  
But he thinks maybe they both "have" each other, even if he did take back "the thing." And even if she dates other men; a lot of other men. Again, for no rational reason, he senses an impending loss. One that would stick a knife in the knot in his stomach, and damage his heart, as if the organ were being torn in half.  
  
She *has* withdrawn from him emotionally since he took back the thing. He can't really blame her, but part of him expects, and wants, Miss Fine to keep pressing the issue, to force him to act on his repressed emotions. He knows, though, that he can't rely on her to chase him forever; she's made it clear that she *will* move on, if progress between them isn't apparent.  
  
--- Are you already gone from me, Miss Fine? ---  
  
Max retrieves the wet towel to, again, serve as a poor excuse for a comfortable headrest. He doesn't care about the discomfort; in a way, he likes that, while he's uncomfortable emotionally, he shouldn't be physically at ease.  
  
If she truly left him, he'd be devastated. Lost. It wouldn't necessarily come in the form of her simply finding another job, because he can think of perhaps an even more torturous situation, and that would be for her to stay on as his nanny while shutting him out emotionally.  
  
He smiles, considering all the outfits he thought were perhaps for his benefit - short skirts, bare mid-driffs, tight bosom-thrusting tops. Max knows they weren't really just for him, but if she were to become deeply involved with someone else, he'd know that the days of her taking her time to climb the stairs knowing full well that he was watching would be over. As would any joy he might've gotten from the skimpy clothes she'd wear for the express purpose of turning on another man. It's already stung on more than one occasion to see her dress for a date in a way that he couldn't blame the man if he had his hands all over her.  
  
His wet hand emerging from the water, Max swipes his palm and fingers over his face, attempting to wipe away the fear he knows is marking his countenance. He was scared for his life when he told her he loved her; he was sure the plane was going straight into the Atlantic. Then, when it was all over, it seemed so silly; ridiculous, really. And, by the time they'd reached the front door to the house, he didn't even know if he'd meant it; and if he had, he was positive he'd said it for all the wrong reasons, so he did the only thing he could; he took it back. Now, however, he's more frightened than he was while on that plane he thought was plunging him to his death, their deaths.  
  
The fear that's gripping him now feels like a fight for his life - but not like something out of his hands, like a plane crash; rather, a real battle he's either too dysfunctional to participate in, or one that he's already lost, and so what's the use of even trying.  
  
He knows she thinks he's just afraid. Maybe even that he's weak in some way because he hasn't been able to truly admit his love, or even allow them to explore their feelings for each other.  
  
--- You think I'm weak; I think you're wrong. I'm a stronger man than you think, Fran Fine. ---  
  
Feeling beaten down and not very strong just moments ago, Max reminds himself of what he's already been through, and it serves to steel his nerves and harden his resolve.  
  
The unbearable pain of losing his wife taught him he could survive almost anything; it showed him what kind of life force he had inside. And, whether or not he realized it at the time, seeing the way his children dealt with their mother's death illustrated a strength he didn't know was possible.  
  
Max calls to mind, with a painful familiarity, the memory of the day Sarah died - he's thought about it, relived it, a thousand times. He thinks about the bleak days, months, afterwards; and he marvels that it was only a few short years after Sarah's death that Fran had showed up on their doorstep.  
  
He knows now that he'd shut his children out, probably because of a misplaced fear of intimacy, by throwing himself into his work.  
  
--- Much to CC's delight, I'm sure. ---  
  
He chuckles, thinking he really had turned into bloody Captain Von Trapp. And Miss Fine, in the role of Maria, had metaphorically brought music back into his home.  
  
Max reaches to set the Jacuzzi tub jets going, while draining some of the cooling water, and adding some hot to restore the heat. He's relaxing a little, in spite of an underlying feeling of heartbreak. Sorting out the feelings and thoughts he's avoided for so long is therapeutic, he's discovering; and he now allows the hot water and jets to soothe his physical being as well.  
  
Smiling and, simultaneously, feeling his body react to the memories, Max thinks he really should get some kind of an award for his strength and resolve - Miss Fine in all those outfits - flirting, kissing him! Without realizing it, Max raises his hand to his mouth and touches his lips lightly at the memory of their kisses.  
  
He grumbles and lets his hand fall into the water with a jarring splash as he remembers seeing her kiss those other men. Unbidden, an image of Miss Fine with her hand on the front door knob, twisting it to leave - leave for good - comes to his mind's eye. Is it some kind of premonition? Or simply a nightmarish vision, born out of fear?  
  
--- What a fool I've been. How could I let myself believe you'd stay forever? ---  
  
Not really sure when he'd begun to believe that she'd be around forever, Max has rarely been convinced that she'd ever really leave for good. But now that he's relaxing into the admission of his feelings of love for her, he knows he can't be certain of her continued presence in his life.  
  
Flushed with his new-found confidence in his feelings, he realizes that perhaps it wasn't any kind of "dysfunctionality" on his part that's kept them from beginning a real relationship. Perhaps on some level, taking back "the thing," giving mixed signals, Miss Fine dating all those other men, were all purposeful, yet subconscious, ploys while they simply needed time to grow into a place where they could come together on an equal level; Max ready to love again, confident that his children could accept this woman into their family, and Miss Fine, rid of Danny and having dated enough to know she would truly be happy with Max.  
  
--- I think I could need you in my life, Miss Fine. I *do* need you in my life. ---  
  
The thought, fully formed in his mind takes him aback. It sets his emotional courage back several paces. The heart-rending pain of Sarah's death strikes him again; and, a split second later, the imagined tear- stained faces his children would show him if he and Miss Fine were to begin a relationship only to break up, their easy friendship forever lost.  
  
--- Stop over thinking, Max. You know it's wrong. ---  
  
Max thinks that, with the exceptions of marrying Sarah, having his three children, and hiring Fran Fine, that he's almost always done the wrong thing.  
  
--- They were people in bloody cat suits! Bloody Andrew Lloyd *Webber!* ---  
  
He knows it's not always right, but recognizes that it's in his nature to be cautious. Max has slowly come to admire Miss Fine's passion and joie de vivre. Her exuberance won over his children, and it stole his heart.  
  
Miss Fine throws herself body and soul into almost every thing she does. He smiles, remembering her demonstration of her kissing prowess after she won the kissing contest. And, again, he flashes on all the kisses they've shared, and how he'd soaked in the passion with which she'd infused every one of those gestures. He hopes she'd felt at least some of that same passion from him. He's certainly felt it for her. In fact, he can't relate to any other kind of romantic feeling for a woman. The love he'd shared with Sarah was magical; but it was a youthful love. Something he'd never recapture, and he was glad about that. But what Fran had stirred in him was something more mature; more grounded in experience. Experience that gives way to the knowledge of what kind of fire a couple can ignite in one another.  
  
Never before, and, he's certain, never again after Miss Fine, has Max felt such a physical draw to a woman. The combination of his intellectual wonderment of the enigma she is to him and the love he's developed for her, have combined with their physical chemistry to create something more powerful than he'd ever imagined possible.  
  
But grabbing all life has to offer is not something Max is used to. While Miss Fine does her best to make the most of every opportunity presented to her, and, in spite of her efforts to encourage Max to do the same, he knows it's simply not in his nature.  
  
It's something he's admired about Nigel. He'd never ever admit it to his brother, and there've been times he's been thankful for his own cautious nature, but he wishes he were able to capture some of Nigel's spirit when it comes to Miss Fine.  
  
He wonders, for a brief, nightmarish moment, if Miss Fine wouldn't be better off with Nigel. They're more suited for each other; birds of a feather and all. But then, opposites attract, right?  
  
--- God, I'm over-thinking this. I think too much. ---  
  
Max wonders if Gracie's therapist could see him for a few sessions to help him deal with this over-thinking issue. To help him deal, in general. And, in particular, right now, to help him shake the feeling that keeps cropping up that Fran is already gone; out of his reach for good.  
  
He wants her to come home to him, no matter where she's gone. The house would be so empty. His heart would be empty. Max doesn't know what he'd do if faced with the horrifying fact that she were irretrievable to him. He'd simply be paralyzed.  
  
It's illustrated to him through his fears that he needs her to be in his home; in *their* home - she's truly made it her home, too. The love she and the children have developed for each other has made them a family. The love that's grown between them all has made them a family. An unconventional family, for now, anyway, but more real than a lot of "nuclear families."  
  
Without even realizing it, he'd let her in to his heart, embraced her as one of the Sheffields, a long time ago. She, in turn, had transformed them all into Fines, as well. And all of their lives were the fuller and happier for it.  
  
--- There's a little bit of Sheffield in that Fine. And some Fine in all the Sheffields under this roof. Niles, too, I suppose. ---  
  
Max knows it would be impossible to get over her. Maggie, Brighton, and Grace would carry the hurt for a long time; he would carry it forever. He'd never find love again after her. The thought both petrifies and emboldens him. He fears the true intimacy that would come with declaring his love, making love, to Miss Fine. It would be a depth of emotion he'd never surface from; a depth he could quite happily drown in, or very painfully find himself stranded in the middle of. But to never experience it at all would be the most excruciating; the absolute worst of his silly fears.  
  
Skin having become prune-like many minutes ago, Max finishes sipping his tea and exits the tub, drying himself off with a clean, fluffy towel and dons his silk pajamas, the ones, he remembers, he was wearing when Miss Fine ended up in his bed. Accidentally.  
  
--- Next time, it won't be accidental. ---  
  
Max grins with a half-confident, half-embarrassed smile at the raw carnal desire that accompanies his love for Miss Fine, and the way he's certain that when they do consummate their relationship, it will be oh-so satisfying and absolutely unforgettable.  
  
Thirsty after the hot soak in his tub, Max secures his lightweight robe around his waist and slips his clean feet into his slippers to head to the kitchen for some cold water. As he's opening the refrigerator, he hears someone banging about in the living room. Investigating, he sees Miss Fine settling down on the couch.  
  
Silent and not yet revealing his presence, Max watches and decides. She's home, and the relief he feels is palpable; he needs to tell her how much he needs her there so she'll never leave again.  
  
********************************  
  
"Miss Fine, why are you sitting in the dark?"  
  
"Oh, Mr. Sheffield, you scared me. It's. um. good for my skin."  
  
Fran hopes Mr. Sheffield will just let her little lie slide and believe it to really be another one of her beauty rituals. He comes to sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of her position on the couch, where she's reclining, nursing her sore ankle and her tender heart.  
  
"Really? Well, I'm glad you're home."  
  
He reaches out to touch her leg, in a gesture she doesn't expect. Not that he hasn't touched her before, in much this same position - but there's something different about this contact. Something jolting. He's looking at her awfully strangely; staring, really. After the emotional roller coaster she's been on today, Fran isn't up to any kind of 'talk' with her boss, because that's the kind of look he's got on his face, like he wants to *talk*. It's precisely because he's much more than an employer to her that Fran's not in the right frame of mind for talking with him about anything more probing than the weather.  
  
"Mr. Sheffield, you look tired, you should go to bed," Fran ventures, hoping it will deflect his attention from her.  
  
"Me? Um, well, yes I am. No, wait. Actually, I wanted to talk to you, Miss Fine. Fran."  
  
Her instincts were right. He wants to talk, and she's pretty sure he wants to talk about "them." Using her first name is a big clue.  
  
"Fran, I need to tell you someth-"  
  
"Gee, Mr. Sheffield, I'm really tired myself. If you don't mind, maybe we could talk tomorrow." Fran leaps off the couch, anxious to get away from him and from this conversation she fervently doesn't want to have. She's afraid that, with the way she's feeling right now, she might say too much - reveal that she almost boarded a ship bound for a marriage to his brother; or, conversely, that she might not say enough - be unable to tell him that she loves him.  
  
As much as she's wanted this conversation to happen - for them to speak honestly about their feelings - it needs to be the right time for both of them. She's been ready before, or, at least at the time, she thought she was; he's ready now, or, at least, she thinks he might be. But he also said he loved her and he wasn't ready then.  
  
Still trying to get out of this little talk, Fran dashes, as best she can, up the stairs, leaving Mr. Sheffield behind. Not long after, she settles into bed, and surprises herself by only briefly considering the fact that she could've been marrying Nigel Sheffield. He wasn't what she wanted; deep down, she knew that all along. Marriage and stability, children and a husband who's demonstrative and free with his affections *are* what she wants. But making the decision to meet Nigel at the dock was the wrong path to those goals. She wonders if maybe she missed those cabs and didn't make the sailing time by some kind of subconscious purpose.  
  
For once, instead of the other way around, her better senses intervened on behalf of her heart, which, she already knows, belongs to Maxwell Sheffield. Not that she's willing to wait around forever; Fran knows that, at some point, they'll either both be ready to act on their feelings and begin a relationship, or they won't, period. And she'll somehow know when it'll be time to move on. But that time hasn't come yet.  
  
--- Maxwell Sheffield, you're something else, you know that? Not even Danny cast a spell on me the way you have. ---  
  
Fran isn't sure if it's really her longing for Mr. Sheffield that's keeping her here, but she'd like to think it's also that she really belongs in the Sheffield home - whether it's as the lady of the house or as the nanny. She knows she belongs in the hearts of his children; and they've firmly planted themselves in hers, and that fact won't change no matter what happens with their father.  
  
Her mind's wanderings shift slightly, and Fran finds herself concentrating again on Mr. Sheffield and the times she's looked into his eyes and seen the love there. But it's always just a little clouded; hidden. She understands now, more than she has since "the thing" - more than ever, really - that he's simply not been ready to trust his heart to anyone. Not yet, anyway.  
  
Fran initially resented his need to play it safe. Not allowing their feelings to even have a chance to grow; he'd made the decision that they were through before they'd even started. Fran sits up a little and fluffs her pillow a bit harder than necessary, and, by the time she drops her head back to the down-filled pillow, it hits her mentally, like her head's just hit the pillow, that when Mr. Sheffield took back "the thing," they were really only just beginning.  
  
Even their "friends" kisses had the sexy appeal of a ramping up of physical pleasure more than the affirmation of something platonic. Fran absentmindedly brushes her fingers over her lips, remembering not just those, but the other kisses she's shared with Mr. Sheffield. In the end, though, she remembers the "friends" kisses the most fondly, and as the sexiest kisses she's ever received, or bestowed.  
  
Fran considers how the theme of 'declaration and denial' has become familiar for them. It's a theme she fears they'll keep playing. Even if there's been a sort of cosmic purpose to them not being able to follow through on any of their "starts," they do keep returning to one another.  
  
--- When something's that good, there's no denying it, I guess. And, boy, are you good, Mister. ---  
  
Fran thinks back to the intimate moments between them - the kisses, the near-kisses - which have all been backed up by the way he's opened up his home and his family to her. She smiles warmly with the irony that it wasn't Mr. Sheffield who opened up the kids' hearts to her - they came to love her on their own. Now, she can't imagine her life without them.  
  
Considering the men she's dated since she's been working for Mr. Sheffield, Fran wonders if she ever even *wanted* those short-lived relationships to develop into anything; maybe she'd been holding herself back. As much as she was ready to give up all that currently defines her life to run off with Nigel, right now, she's positive there's nothing she wouldn't give up to be with Mr. Sheffield.  
  
Fran turns on her side and folds her arm underneath her head, wondering what Mr. Sheffield is thinking about right now, in his own bed. She wishes she could talk to him about all this. Not about her feelings for him, exactly, but about how she'd come so close to going with Nigel - how she'd tried to go with Nigel, and how she now feels so stupid for it.  
  
Mr. Sheffield has become her best friend, in some ways. She's come to rely on him to be there for her, no matter what. And she knows he's come to count on her, as well. She'd see him through anything; even at her own expense. And Fran can say with certainty that he'd do anything for her, as well.  
  
A small, sad smile crosses Fran's lips as she thinks about Sarah Sheffield. There's no jealousy in her feelings about the woman; only sadness for the life cut short, and for husband and children that were left behind. Fran's sense of fate allows her to be glad that they had the time together that they did, and unselfishly glad for herself, as well, that she's been able to become part of the Sheffield household.  
  
She'd like to think she's helped Mr. Sheffield heal from the heartbreak of his wife's death . He's much closer to his children than when she first became their nanny; and she knows Mr. Sheffield has more confidence in himself as a man now.  
  
--- I knew all those crop tops and short skirts were good for something. ---  
  
Fran knows that Mr. Sheffield has helped her, too. Giving her a chance and hiring her - even if it was out of desperation - but she believes he'd seen that she'd rise to any occasion, and allowed her the room to do so. She believes, in her heart, that she needed just that, after her relationship with Danny. The Sheffields gave her the economic and emotional independence essential for her to grow. Even if that's all that comes from her time working here, Fran will be happy knowing that she's made an impact on the lives of Maggie, Brighton, and Gracie - and Mr. Sheffield; and that they've all had a positive effect on her life - one that's beyond measure.  
  
Sighing and snuggling farther into the covers, Fran scolds herself for being so practical and wise. Then, she lets her romantic side take over and dreamily recalls again their kisses, their touches.  
  
--- Darn you, Mr. Sheffield, I'm not ready to kiss that dream goodbye. ---  
  
Some kind of energy flows between them when they touch. Sometimes it's sexual; other times it's just so comfortable and natural. Fran thinks that's the way it should always be between a couple - exciting *and* comfortable. For that, and a million other intangible reasons, Fran believes they really do deserve a chance at seeing where their attraction can lead.  
  
When something's that compelling, when it feels that good, that *right* to kiss someone, hold their hand, and touch them with a thousand small gestures, there's no denying it. And with these thoughts, Fran's beginning to become frustrated; anxious. *Now* she's ready to talk; ready to tell him how she feels.  
  
She wants to tell him she loves him; and the revelation stuns her. She's never wanted to do that before. She's thought it over and over, but has never said it.  
  
--- Oh, my God. He told me he loved me, and I never said it back. ---  
  
No wonder he took back "the thing," she scolds herself. On top of all the other completely valid reasons, like still being scarred from the death of his wife, not wanting to hurt the children, and not wanting to risk their precious friendship, maybe it frightened him all the more that she never said it back.  
  
--- All right, Mister. I guess it's time for *me* to do something here. ---  
  
Sitting up and tossing the covers off, Fran puts on not her usual morning bathrobe of fuzzy terrycloth, but her red silky one. Wondering if she's about to jump from the frying pan into the fire, she decides that the risk she's taking is not one she's taking blindly. She knows their relationship has taken this circuitous route for a reason, but it's time to make a bee- line; and she knows just where she's headed.  
  
END 


End file.
